


Exergasia

by inwhatfurnace



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Slow Burn, android anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inwhatfurnace/pseuds/inwhatfurnace
Summary: Connor watches, mesmerized, as Hank puts his lips to the end of the siphon and sucks. He covers the opening with his thumb and crouches back down to Connor, brow furrowed in concentration. “This feels like some fucked-up eighth-grade science-fair project,” he grumbles. His fingers find the valve easily, and instantly, thirium is traveling down from the bag in the sink into Connor’s regulator.





	1. actuality

**Author's Note:**

> I can't resist hurt/comfort potential and sad robots in one hamfisted package! I hope to be back relatively soon with the second chapter.

The fucker gets in a lucky shot and catches him in his right arm. Hank slows to a stop and leans against the alley wall, listening to his own erratic breathing. He can feel something dripping down the side of his face, and a pressed hand comes back wet and red. The fucker got in a few lucky shots, then.

“Hank? Hank!” Connor finds him as the world begins to tilt. Adrenaline keeps the pain at bay, but he lets Connor maneuver him so they’re both on the ground, Hank propped up against the brick wall, Connor hovering over him.

“M’okay,” he insists.

“Hold on. I’ve already requested an ambulance from dispatch.” Connor’s eyes are darting all over his face, his LED an agitated yellow. “I’m going to apply pressure to your wound,” he says, and when he does, Hank sees stars.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he replies, and passes out.

* * *

He wakes up to a sanitized, blinding white light that can only mean he’s in a hospital. He groans, shuts his eyes, and then tries again.

He’s hooked up to a few machines that beep quietly. He’s in what must be an incredibly unflattering hospital gown. His arm hurts, but not unbearably, even with a bandage wrapped tight around it. There’s an IV shoved up his other arm. Connor is sitting in a chair by the window, relief plain on his face.

“Hi, Hank,” Connor says.

“Hi yourself,” he replies, and Connor is instantly up and fussing, helping Hank sit up and probably calculating something completely ridiculous, like the most comfortable angle to place the pillow behind his back based on his height and weight.

“How long was I out?” Hanks asks as Connor tries to tuck the sheets even more tightly around him. Hank bats his hands away but Connor stays standing, shifting from one foot to the other.

“We arrived at the hospital at eleven-fifty-two last night. Your surgery was at twelve-twenty-six this morning. It’s currently one-oh-five in the afternoon. You were awake after surgery, but have been in and out of sleep since.”

Hank nods, and the silence that follows seems to exacerbate Connor’s nervous energy.

“I’ll go get the nurse,” Connor announces, and is out the door before Hank can say anything more.

Hank scrubs a hand over his face, and immediately realizes something is wrong. He gingerly touches the bandage that’s wrapped around his head, and almost curses out loud when he feels how closely cropped his hair is. It hasn’t been this short in years. 

He’s startled out of the beginnings of a pity party by a knock at the door.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson,” the nurse says as she crosses the room, picking up the chart that hangs at the foot of the bed. “My name’s Julie. Connor mentioned you might prefer a human nurse,” she says, tone and expression completely neutral. “That’s an easy accommodation to make.” The LED at her temple stays an easy, unconcerned blue.

“Nah,” is Hank’s response. “We’re good.”

“Alright,” she says, and begins to swipe through his chart. “I’m happy to tell you that your surgery was completely uneventful. The bullet that was in your arm has been removed with minimal damage to the surrounding area. A bullet also grazed your temple, that wound required stitches. Another tore up your left ear, reconstruction was required.” She pauses and looks up. “I apologize about your haircut, it was deemed necessary.”

“It’s fine. Hair grows, right?”

Julie smiles encouragingly. “Everything seems to be just fine, Lieutenant. I see no reason not to send you home today.”

“Great,” Hank replies. “That sounds great.”

She pokes a few more times at his chart, then hands it to him. 

“If you don’t mind reviewing your discharge form, we’ll get you on your way,” she says, turning to the equipment that Hank’s hooked up to. A few button presses and one IV removal later, he’s free. “Your recommended prescriptions are an antibiotic cream to prevent infection and painkillers for your arm.”

Hank pauses, lifting his finger off the tablet.

“I’ll stick with over-the-counter stuff,” he says, and Julie nods, her eyebrows raising slightly as her LED blinks.

“I’ve let the pharmacy know. It’s on the ground floor, in the east wing. You’ll see signs for it on your way out.” 

“Got it. Thanks,” Hank says, and hands her back his paperwork.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. A copy will be emailed to you.” Julie returns his chart to where it snaps magnetically to the bedframe. She pauses, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Your partner’s a real sweetheart. Every nurse on the floor is smitten with him.”

Hank snorts. “He’s a piece of work, is what he is. Doesn’t listen to a goddamn thing I say.”

Right on cue, Connor appears in the doorway, with two bottles of pop and at least five candy bars in tow. “Should I come back?”

Hank waves him in, conscious of how Julie’s gaze flickers between the two of them. 

“If you need anything else, I’ll be at the nurses’ station. Take your time, and take care of yourself, Lieutenant. It was nice to meet you, Connor.” One more smile and she’s gone, closing the door behind her.

“I bought snacks in case your blood sugar was low,” Connor explains, letting Hank pick what he wants from where they’re piled up in his arms. He puts the rest of on the table by the bed. 

“You implying I’m irritable?” Hanks accuses, tearing open the wrapper.

“I’m not sure that hypoglycemia is main cause of your irritability,” Connor replies smoothly. Hank flips him off and takes a bite of the chocolate bar in what he hopes in an intimidating way.

Connor had run home while Hank was in surgery to bring him in a change of clothes and to check on Sumo. Staying annoyed with him takes too much effort.

* * *

Sumo greets Hank at the door with a whine, leaning his entire body against his legs.

“Aw, you still know me, even with my new hairdo and new ear?” He coos, dragging both of his hands through the dog’s fur.

“I’ll take him out,” Connor volunteers, and Sumo perks up immediately. “We’ll be right back.”

Hank turns on the TV, throws his prescription bag onto the coffee table, and collapses onto the couch. He dozes until he hears the front door open and shut. The weatherman is walking through the five-day forecast. Sumo lumbers over to his bed and circles once, twice, before laying down.

“So,” Hank says as Connor takes a seat at the other end of the couch. “My hair. Be honest.”

Connor turns to him, the beginning of a smile turning the corners of his mouth. “It’s different. I like it.”

“You sweet talker, you.” Hank sinks even further into the cushions. “Don’t know about you, but I’m beat.”

“Your hair,” Connor’s arms come up, then go back down. He scoots closer. His hands twitch. “Can I?”

Hank considers it, then shrugs and ducks down a little. “Knock yourself out.”

Connor’s fingers gently graze what’s left of Hank’s hair, just barely touching the scalp, skimming over the top to avoid the bandage on the left side of his head and his reconstructed right ear. His expression is unreadable, and Hank can only imagine what Connor would find if he scanned his face. Connor pulls back and then just sort of… falls into him, face pressed into Hank’s good shoulder. 

“Hey, hey,” Hank says softly, as Connor lets out one long, shuddering breath. He brings his hand up to pat Connor’s back, and finds himself being clutched tightly. “I’m ok. You’re ok.”

* * *

Hank wakes up in the morning to the smell of bacon. The wave of childhood nostalgia that rushes over him is so overwhelming that he lies in bed for ten more minutes, staring at the ceiling. He drags himself to the bathroom to piss and pops two acetaminophen to dull the ache in his arm. When he finally gets to the kitchen, he finds Connor scraping a portion of scrambled eggs right out of the pan into Sumo’s bowl, kneeling to say something to the dog that Hank can’t quite catch. He leans against the wall and watches Sumo stare up at Connor, infinitely patient. The damn dog even waits until Connor stands up and walks away before starting to eat.

“Good morning,” Connor says as he puts the pan and spatula in the sink.

“Yeah.” Hank can’t disagree. “Morning. You make toast yet?”

“Not yet,” Connor replies, and Hank pushes off the wall to make his way into the kitchen.


	2. potentiality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He catalogues the rapid shifts in emotion over Hank’s face – confusion, realization, disbelief, interest, amusement. Potential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write super comfortable domesticity, but this spiraled out of control. I haven’t written a chaptered fic in a long, long time, I feel very rusty even though it’s just two! I also edited the previous chapter, switching Hank's injury from his shoulder to his arm to make it a little more plausible that he'd be in-and-out of the hospital within a day.

Connor watches the suspect dash out the back door. The lack of his left optical unit and the amount of thirium leaking from his neck make the likelihood of a successful pursuit incredibly low. He presses a hand to his throat and heads out the way he came in, hoping to find an officer nearby. He’s fortunate – Hank is walking up the steps just as Connor closes the front door behind him.

“I may need medical attention,” Connor warns him. His voice is raspy and soft. He’s notified that there’s too much air in his artificial larynx.

“Holy shit,” Hank greets him emphatically. “Connor, are you holding your own fucking eye?”

“I am.”

“Ben, a little help here!” Hank yells over his shoulder. Detective Collins takes one look at Connor and is immediately fumbling for his cell phone, punching in the number for dispatch. 

“The suspect had some sort of hunting knife,” Connor explains. “They escaped.”

“It’s fine, alright? Forget it.” Hank pushes on his shoulders and they both sit down on the front steps of the suspect’s house. His hand comes up to tilt Connor’s face towards his.

He gives Hank his best reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. It’s not like a human eye, it won’t swell if it’s out of its socket.” 

“Jesus,” he says, and holds out his other hand. “Give it here.” Connor places his eye in Hank’s palm. Detached from the rest of him, the synthetic skin covering the part is gone, the pupil wide and unfocused. After a moment’s hesitation, Hank pushes it back in, pulling a face when it clicks into place. Connor’s binocular vision is restored, but an alert warns him that the connection is unstable.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Hank sounds like he’d prefer if something like this never happened again. “Let me see your neck.”

Connor removes his hand, which is almost completely stained blue. Hank sucks in a breath and winces in sympathy. “Shit, Connor,” he mutters, and puts his own hand over the gash. “Is blood loss a thing for you?”

“My levels are lower than recommended, but I’m fine for a few more hours.” A blinking red countdown lets him know, to the millisecond, just how long he has. “Thank you,” he says again, when he realizes Hank has no plans to move his hand.

“Help’ll be here soon,” Hank replies.

It is – the ambulance arrives not long before sunset. The EMTs cover his neck with a liquid plastic bandage to stop the bleeding, clean up both his and Hank’s hands, and take them to one of the android clinics that have popped up in the city, many of them overhauled CyberLife storefronts. Hank takes a seat in the waiting room as a triage nurse leads Connor further back into the clinic. 

“I’m Noah,” he says, and holds out his hand, bare and glossy in the clinic’s bright light. Connor reaches out, taking his hand just as the synthetic skin around his own disappears. The transfer of information, is, fittingly, clinical: everything Noah needs to know about his injuries and nothing more. Noah gestures for Connor to take a seat on the exam room table. 

“Rough day at work?” He asks as he turns to pull medical supplies out of the nearby cabinets.

“I’ve had better.”

“Repairing your neck and eye shouldn’t take too long. Can I ask you to go into stasis? You’ll probably be more comfortable.”

“Sure,” Connor replies, pulling his feet up and lying down.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” Noah says. Connor closes his eyes and lets himself drift off.

* * *

The RK-800 was designed to be a walking, talking evidence locker, with thousands of programming hours spent iterating on his observational, analytical, and recall abilities. Now, with his mind palace abandoned, all that means is that he has a generous memory bank filled with things he likes, moments he returns to often.

Making Officer Collins laugh so hard coffee comes out his nose. The tears in Markus’s eyes the night they made a beginning for themselves. Hank waiting for him, the snow in his hair and on his jacket better than a love letter. The _thumpthumpthump_ of Sumo’s tail against the floor whenever Connor crouches down to pet him. North burning every piece of CyberLife-issued clothing she could find (including Connor’s jacket), the blaze blinding against the night sky. Hank pressing the spare key into his hand and saying _you can go wherever the fuck you want but know you can come back here._

He’d spent six months after the Revolution with the androids from Jericho. He helped the rebels repurpose CyberLife tower; assisted in directing the incredible number of androids both leaving and entering the city; offered his advice on improvements that could be made to the police department. He’d kept the key on him wherever he went, just in case. It wasn’t that he never saw Hank: he’d get a text (one of these messages is another favorite: _good ol jeffrey dealt with the feds. says to stop by when you get tired of playing hooky_ ) and he’d join Hank for lunch, or they'd go for a drive. But it was different.

A carefully stored memory: ringing Hank’s doorbell at seven in the morning. Hank cracking open the door and just staring at him.

“I gave you a fucking key,” he’d said, voice groggy. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“I’m back,” he’d replied. The door opened all the way.

And another, newer: running his fingers over Hank’s shorn hair, finally facing what he had before him, now that this was something he had chosen.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the ceiling of the exam room. A bright light flicks back and forth, testing his pupils.

“You’re all set,” Noah says, and Connor sits up. It’s nice not to have any warnings clogging up his HUD. “Your thirium levels are fine now, but you’ll probably need a little more for recalibration. The most efficient way is to introduce it to your body directly via your pump regulator. If you’d like, we can do that here, but it’s relatively easy to do yourself.”

Connor considers his options. “I should be able to manage.”

Noah gives him two bags of thirium and a long piece of plastic hose, explaining how to hook himself up as he puts the supplies in a paper bag. “Any trouble, we’re open twenty-four-seven.”

“Thank you.” He shakes hands with Noah again, this time just as a token of appreciation. 

Hank is still sitting in the waiting room, arms crossed over his chest and his head starting to nod. He rubs at his eyes when Connor gently shakes his shoulder.

“Look at you, all patched up. How’d things go with the doc-in-the-box?”

“Good. I just need to top off my thirium when we get home.” 

Hank stands, then holds out his hand and curls his fingers, gesturing for the bag. Connor lets him carry it. They take a cab home. Hank calls Captain Fowler on the way, grinning as he negotiates a day off for them both.

* * *

Sumo is, as usual, happy to see them. Connor pays particular attention to the good spot behind his ear.

He gives the dog one final pat, then takes the bag back from Hank. “I’m going to take care of this.” Hank waves him off. Connor starts for the bathroom, pauses, then turns back. “You were right. I shouldn’t have swept the house by myself.”

“Sorry, new ear, still not used to it.” Hank gestures to the side of his head. “Can you say that again?”

It’s been his favorite joke for the past three months. Connor rolls his eyes but smiles when Hank laughs. 

“If you need help, just holler.”

Connor doesn’t bother closing the bathroom door. He tosses the thirium bags and the tubing in the sink, catching his reflection in the mirror. He tilts his head up to look at the repair job on his throat. The synthetic skin there is as smooth as it was yesterday. Like nothing had happened at all. He thinks of the starburst of scar tissue on Hank’s arm, his now much-shorter hair.

He strips, then puts the toilet seat down and places his folded clothes on top. He lets the synthetic skin covering his torso crawl back, so that everything from his collarbone to his hips is just smooth, white plastic. He plugs one end of the tube into the thirium bag, then double checks that the connection is secure. He holds onto the other end of the hose as he steps into the empty tub and sits down, then retracts the casing around his thirium pump and regulator. It should be simple, in theory, to hook himself up to the bag, but the angle is more awkward than he’d anticipated.

He stares down at his chest, frustrated. He could get up and find a room with better lighting. He could go back to the clinic. He could reference some DIY android repair videos on the internet. Or – 

“Hank!” He shouts, leaning towards the door. “Can you bring me a flashlight?”

He hears a muffled reply from the direction of the living room, so he waits. It takes a few minutes, but soon Hank is standing in the doorway, flashlight in hand. He looks at Connor and lets out a low whistle. 

“How’s it going?”

“I need a little extra light,” Connor says. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, sure, let me just uh, illuminate your insides here.” Hank kneels in front of the tub and turns the flashlight on. “What’re we looking for?”

“There should be an intake valve near the top of my pump regulator.”

“Kinda crowded in here, huh?” Hank says, squinting. “Oh. I think I got it. Siphoning it in is fine, right?” Connor nods. “Hold this.” Hank trades him the flashlight for the tube and stands back up. “I’ll get you set up.”

Connor watches, mesmerized, as Hank puts his lips to the end of the siphon and sucks. He covers the opening with his thumb and crouches back down to Connor, brow furrowed in concentration. “This feels like some fucked-up eighth-grade science-fair project,” he grumbles. His fingers find the valve easily, and instantly, thirium is traveling down from the bag in the sink into Connor’s regulator.

“Still got it,” Hank crows, pleased with himself.

And Connor – Connor feels frazzled, electric, overtaken by sweet-soft static that makes it feel like the tub is full, like he’s floating in just-right warm water. It can’t be just the thirium. He lets the flashlight hit the bottom of the tub, barely hears the dull thunk against the porcelain. 

He scans Hank’s hands. He knows what the answer is but wants to see the results anyway. Remnants of Connor’s blood are still there, invisible to the human eye but bright fluorescent to his own. The thought of Hank’s fingerprints, thirium-blue, inside of him, or trace amounts of saliva from the siphon is –––– is something he should consider later.

“So? This doing anything for you?” Hank waggles his eyebrows.

He’s deeply grateful that, even in deviancy, he can school his expression into something unconcerned. Connor shrugs one shoulder. “I think I’d need a more intentional stimulus for that.”

He catalogues the rapid shifts in emotion over Hank’s face – confusion, realization, disbelief, interest, amusement. Potential.

“You pervy little shit,” Hank grins. “Next time you wanna hit on me, try doing it when I’m not helping you with your late-night robo-transfusion.”

“Noted,” Connor replies. The first bag runs dry.

“You ready for round two?” Hank asks as he detaches the hose from Connor.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little too eager, and Hank’s grin is back. He repeats the same process, this time not even needing the flashlight: one end of the siphon into the thirirum bag, the other to his lips, then to Connor. The feeling rushes back, almost like he’s overloaded, even though a frantically-performed diagnostic calmly informs him that he has more than enough data storage to last for – well, forever. So he commits it all to memory: Hank’s fingers gently guiding the siphon to the valve. Blue blood looping around in the tube before settling into him. Hank looking at him expectantly.

“We should go on a vacation,” he blurts out, overwhelmed by affection.

Hank huffs out a laugh. He puts an elbow on the edge of the tub and leans his cheek against his hand, smiling. “Not a bad idea. Haven’t been anywhere in years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: ok so I got the blood out but how am I gonna get it back in  
> my brain: siphoning  
> me: yeah sounds good  
> my brain: uhhh vaguely sexy (?) siphoning  
> me:
> 
> (Thank you for reading! You can also find me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/amyrran) or [tumblr](http://aetheling.tumblr.com/).)


End file.
